2006 10Best Reader Stories

Four street-racing yarns, a few bad trips, a miracle deal, and the SCCA comes to Alabama.

In 1966, I had the typical California car: a '55 Chevy two-door hardtop, 283 small-block bored out to 292, high-compression pistons, '59 Corvette mechanical fuel injection, with a '63 Vette cam. The transmission was a Muncie M21 four-speed, with a 370 posi rear diff. The car was metal-flake blue, black interior, chrome wheels.

I had an untypical girlfriend, in that her favorite activity was cruising and street racing. For two years after high school, my life was basically American Graffiti. We would cruise, eat at the A&W, and hang with other car freaks.

One night my girlfriend wanted to drive, and I let her. She was pretty good, and quick with gearchanges. At one light, a '61 Pontiac pulled up and revved the engine. She begged me to let her race him, and I said okay. She kicked his butt, but alas, a mile down the road, Hawthorne's finest pulled us over. They asked us to get out of the car.

They took her aside and talked a little while. Then the two police officers approached me and said they were going to take me to jail for racing and reckless driving. I asked them how that could be, as I was not driving the car. They said I owned the car and had allowed my girlfriend to race it.

I calmly told the police that they could not take me in. "Why?" they asked. I told them I was only 17 and that my girlfriend was 18. As a minor, I could not be responsible for the actions of an adult, and in fact she was contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

They ended up giving my girlfriend a ticket for not having her driver's license with her. They were ready to take me in but let her off easy. It sure paid off being blond and pretty in California.Greg WoodLong Beach, California

In 1968 I owned a 427-cubic-inch, 435-hp Vette with a 411 rear. I was cruising on a "deserted" stretch of highway when a Pontiac GTO came up alongside. On exchanging glances, we decided to race. It didn't take long for my Vette to leave the GTO behind. Well, my glee turned to consternation when in my rearview mirror I saw flashing lights. Both the GTO and I slowed down to a crawl. The police car pulled me over and let the GTO continue on its way. The patrolman approached my car and asked for my license and registration. I respectfully asked why I'd been pulled over but not the GTO. The patrolman answered, "We only give tickets to the winners."Lane ZuckermanFreehold, New Jersey

In the summer of '57, my friend Doug and I had finished with our requisite Big Boy burger at Bob's in Toluca Lake and were headed home through Hollywood in his chopped '54 Ford F100 pickup with a warmed-over 331 Chrysler engine driving a Zephyr three-speed gearbox. It had 8.00-by-15-inch tires on the rear wheels to absorb all the power. We pulled up to a light near the Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset, heading west, when two guys in a '57 Chevy convertible pulled beside us. The Chevy had "fuel injection" flags on the fender, the hottest thing Chevrolet had to offer. When the light turned green, Doug let them off and then pulled alongside them at the next red light. Doug leaned out and said, "Jeez, that thing really goes! Whaddya got in it?" The rider proudly replied, "Fuel injection, a four-speed, Duntov cam, and headers." Doug says, "When the light turns green, let's try it again—I didn't get a good start last time." So the light turns green, the Chevy takes off, Doug kinda feather-foots the Chrysler-powered Ford F100 through some of first gear. When he's about a car length behind the Chevy at 35 or 40 mph, he floors the truck and winds out to 65 in first gear. With the rear end wagging, we go by the Chevy like they put out an anchor and on into second gear and up to about 85 before he lets off.

At the next light the guys in the Chevy, duly impressed, inquired, "Jeez, whaddya got in that thing?" Doug leans out and says, "It's got a Ford six with dual points, dual carbs, and dual exhaust." Somehow, the guys in the '57 Chevy were skeptical.

The next day Doug was out fooling around and managed to suck a valve in the Chrysler. Since the pickup originally did have a Ford six in it, Doug put it back into the truck while the Chrysler engine was being fixed.

Next Saturday night, we're back at Bob's Big Boy in Toluca Lake in the now much-lower-powered F100. We finally got a parking slot at the drive-in, and about 10 minutes later the car next to us left, and guess who pulls in! Now, of course, the same guys in the Chevy convertible want to see what's under the hood of the F100. After a lot of hemming and hawing and exclaiming that we had already told them what was there, Dougie finally condescended to open the hood. You can imagine the thud on the ground from two jaws hitting the pavement when there, in its mundane glory, was the Ford six engine. Dougie and I could not stop laughing.Don WollesenLa Selva Beach, California

Thirty years ago I was heading from Nevada to New York in my red '64 Pontiac GTO convertible. It was my mission to complete the trip with the top down the entire way.

I had just negotiated the canyons east of Salt Lake City on I-80 on the second day, cruising along at 55 mph. I had relocated to Nevada to work as a firefighter and complete my training as a pilot. Looking up, I noticed a Cessna 150, very similar to the one I had been using during my flight training, and waved a skyward salute. As is customary, the pilot responded by wagging the wings in acknowledgment. Even though I estimated the Cessna's speed at about 70 mph, faster than my own pace, I knew the race was on as the plane's attitude leveled, gaining speed.

The top speed of the Cessna was 122 mph, and I knew my vacuum-operated tri-powered GTO was more than capable of that. I increased speed, and so did the Cessna. About two minutes later, with my foot to the floor, I cleared a slight rise to find a trio of highway patrol cars neatly arranged alongside the road. That's when I realized I'd been snookered. Whereas the GTO enjoyed strong acceleration, it suffered from poor high-speed handling and braking, giving me plenty of time to contemplate my predicament as my brain raced to explain this transgression of speed.

I got out and immediately assumed the position on the hood of the GTO. The grinning trooper, noticing my license plate read "FIRE," asked if I was going to one. I told him my wife was having a baby, the accelerator was stuck to the floor, and with four bald tires I wanted to hurry before they blew out. The excitement of the moment was punctuated by the acrid smell of overheated drum brakes and rising smoke from the wheel wells.

I didn't have to wait long to hear the results of the race. Over the trooper's loudspeakers came the report from my racing buddy in the Cessna: "Red convertible, 137 mph." He paused, then added: "If I'd had the 172 Cessna, I could have beaten him."

The trooper felt sorry for me and said he'd write the ticket for a reduced speed.

But I wouldn't hear of it. Since this was my first race with an airplane, and having the winning time, I said I would consider it an honor if he'd write me up for the full 137 mph. To this day, I pull that ticket out of my desk drawer and realize that time has not dimmed the exhilaration of that race so many years ago.Reed W. DopfZephyr Cove, Nevada